


Is it bright where you are?

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hallucinations, Humor, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Peer Pressure, Recreational Drug Use, Trippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Jaskier bought some weird mushrooms in Oxenfurt. What's the harm in trying them with Geralt in the middle of the forest?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 37
Kudos: 142
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #002





	Is it bright where you are?

“Come on,” Jaskier said, “don’t be such a bore, Geralt.”

Geralt glared at the campfire. “Not being a bore. I’m just not eating dried mushrooms you bought from a flea-infested apothecary in the Oxenfurt slums.”

“Okay, first of all, Oxenfurt doesn’t have slums. Second, there weren’t any fleas. Well, the old man who sold them to me, perhaps he might have had lice...” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Do lice live on bald people?”

“I don’t know or care.” Geralt said, leaning heavy inflection upon the last word and hoping Jaskier would drop the subject.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, seemingly oblivious, “he said they make you feel really nice. It’ll be fun! Two men in the wilderness, peering at the stars and beyond, witnessing colours yet unnamed. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I hunt fucking monsters, Jaskier.”

“Oh, boo to you. Why are you never any fun?” Jaskier crossed his arms like a petulant child.

“I am fun.” Geralt defended.

“Name one time you were fun in the last week.”

Geralt’s frown deepened as he tried to recall the week’s events. Walking, camping, hunting. So what if his life was a bit cyclic? It didn’t make him boring.

“Roach tried to bite your arm on Tuesday.” Geralt said, an air of triumph in his tone.

“That was her being interesting, not you.” Jaskier refuted.

Geralt thought about how good Roach was. No one could accuse her of being dull. He wished she would come over and bite Jaskier again. The horse stood tethered at the campsite, dozing on her feet. Geralt envied her.

“They won’t work.” Geralt said, aggressively poking the fire with a stick. “My mutations will burn them up in my stomach.”

Jaskier sensed victory, and clapped his hands together. “Ooh, do I hear a subdued witcher? You never know, Geralt! C’mon now, on my count.” The bard shook a out a small handful of the dried fungus into his palm, and then portioned out the same for Geralt. “One, two...”

This was stupid. Jaskier was stupid. Still, Geralt lifted his hand to his mouth on three, and swallowed the mushrooms down.

* * *

They didn’t work. Of course they didn’t work; Geralt wasn’t sure why he’d expected any differently. He was a witcher, and having fun with recreational drugs wasn’t something he could easily do. Now he simply sat on the floor of the dingy elf cave, tied back-to-back with Jaskier. The roughspun rope dug uncomfortably into his skin.

“This is the part where we escape!” Jaskier said.

What an idiot. Geralt rolled his eyes, trying to flex free of the bondage. He was about to inform Jaskier that actually, they were about to die, when he heard the wet sound of tearing flesh.

Geralt froze up as Jaskier wriggled behind him, bones cracking like dry kindling, ripping free of his suit of skin and growing, growing to fill the cave, leather web-wings splayed, blood-laced scales glinting. The rope still looped his wrists, but Geralt was standing, staring. Golden dragon.

“Don’t exist.” Geralt whispered, awe-struck.

“This is the part where we escape!” Jaskier said, mouth full of elf limbs.

Geralt blinked. Filavandrel crooned, petting Jaskier’s snout fondly. Jaskier laughed around old bones, the sound rattling like gambling dice in the back of his throat.

“Give me your wood and string and I will make words for the world, forgotten king.” Jaskier requested.

“We have an accord struck, gold bard,” Filavandrel agreed, “you will sing and sing and Geralt will bring you bread when you hunger.”

A lute was produced and hung ceremoniously around Jaskier’s thick neck like a medal. Geralt’s eyes darted around, looking for his weapons. He would not turn them on his friend, no, but he had to be prepared—

“The bread, witcher?” Filavandrel asked him, his features twisted in irritation.

“Don’t have bread.” Geralt said, patting his pockets as an afterthought. They were empty.

“No bread!” Jaskier screeched, “No bread for old kings!”

The elf and the dragon stood side by side and pointed with all their many fingers at Geralt. He felt too small. There had to be a way to fulfil his purpose. An accord had been made. Frantic, he turned on the balls of his feet.

* * *

Yennefer’s kitchen counter was littered with apple cores. Geralt grasped them, crushed them between his fingers, and watched the bright red liquid seep through his fist in fascination. When he opened his hand, he saw pieces of broken pottery.

Rope encircled his wrists. Unbound, for now. He just had to remember why.

“Geralt.” Jaskier wheezed, lungs swollen with apple juice. “Geralt.”

“I am here.” Geralt said, “Don’t worry. I can find it.”

“How can you find it if you don’t know what you’re looking for?” Yennefer’s voice, the toll of a solitary village bell clear and precise in the morning. Get up.

“Oh, Yennefer,” Jaskier chuckled, spitting up seeds and skin, “must you always be so delightfully cryptic? Can’t you see that he’s upset?”

“Why are you upset, Geralt?” Yennefer asked, sweeping away the debris on the table with her cupped palm. “You mustn’t be upset.”

“But he is.” Jaskier pointed out. He tipped and spilled and there was juice everywhere, tart and sticky, and Geralt knew he’d have to clean it up.

“I’m not upset.” Geralt said, wading through the pool, “I just don’t know where it is.”

“She’s right, though.” Jaskier hummed. The note grew, a stretching scale pitched so high that Geralt covered his ears. “Can’t find what you haven’t lost.”

“Where is it, then?” Geralt growled, trying to breathe through the sweetness in his nose. He turned on his heel. He turned again.

* * *

Everyone danced so well, and Geralt had never learned. Jaskier took his hands, clicked his tongue reproachfully. The bard was dressed in every shade of moonlight, borrowing the wane of her phases for the evening.

“Did you have to wear this?” Jaskier tugged at the rope around Geralt’s wrists.

“You have to return back to the sky, after.” Geralt reminded him. “The moon won’t forgive if you are late.”

“I know, I know.” Jaskier sighed, spinning in a graceful circle around Geralt, leaving silty stardust in his wake. The ballroom tilted on its axis. Around them, everyone agreed upon the same thing, trading rings carved from wood.

Geralt looked down at his hand. The ring he had was made of woven daisy stems. He tried to polish it with the cuff of his ruffled sleeve, but it just blossomed louder.

“I got you,” Geralt pulled it free from his index, “I got you a promise. I remembered.”

Jaskier beamed. The silver slipped free from his body. A very small bard took the daisy-ring and crowned himself with it. Geralt loomed over him, frowning. They could not dance if Jaskier would not stop being so tiny. It wasn’t polite.

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier said. He sounded far away. Geralt crouched to hear him.

“You have to promise me, too.” Geralt kept his voice very soft. Jaskier’s ears were too little. “I wore the rope for you.”

“I know.” Jaskier smiled, and climbed onto his foot. “I always know, Geralt.”

“How?” Geralt asked. “How do you do that?”

But Jaskier just kept grinning and shining brighter and brighter. “Geralt,” He said. “Geralt.”

“Don’t shine so much when you are this small!”

“Geralt.”

* * *

It had been an hour and the blasted mushrooms had done absolutely nothing. Jaskier huffed his annoyance as he laid on the bedroll. Geralt had been silent, laying on his side with his back to the bard. He was probably thinking of the most creative way to tell Jaskier that he was a fool for throwing his money at strange mages and their wares.

“Oh, well.” Jaskier said. “We tried, right?”

He received no response.

“Don’t be like that, you sourpuss. Wait, are you asleep? Geralt? Geralt?” Jaskier reached over and prodded his companion in the back.

Slowly, Geralt rolled to face him. The witcher’s pupils were enormous, dwarfing the gold of his irises almost completely. Solemnly, he took up Jaskier’s hands.

“ _You are the flower-promise that binds me to this world, bard_.” Geralt said, monotone. Then he rolled back over and left Jaskier gaping in the wake of the admission.

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier whispered incredulously, “You’re absolutely _blitzed_.”

Geralt had no answer for him. Not for this Jaskier, anyway. Somewhere far away, he was soaring sky-high, riding on the back of a shimmering dragon that had a date with the moon.


End file.
